We’re in our millions, heading for the polls.We’ve had enough of insults, sick of slurs –the shady millionaires, the Russian trolls.Nigel’s the man who got us off our knees,who stuffed the BBC, who spoke his mind.Sod experts, argument, corrupt MPs.Enough of talking. Let’s just get it done.

So, raise two fingers and we’re on our way? Policy statements? A withdrawal plan?You feel so mad there won’t be a delay?‘No deal’ ‘s not simple. Could go on for years.You think Farage is going to stick aroundto build a common future? That’s a joke.You want the easy answer? Just revoke.

It’s Barcelona/Liverpool, the semi-final stageas Jurgen Klopp’s adventure begins a bright new page.They’re going to the Nou Camp, a bit like going to war;they’ll have to put a shift in; they’ll surely need to score.It’s end-to-end, exciting, they pay with guts and heartbut a pass from Jordi Alba rips Liverpool apart. Suarez is there to meet it, with joy he slides it in.No muted celebrations, ‘cos Luis likes to win.The reds have had their chances, but this is not their night.They make the runs, get sight of goal, but nothing goes quite right.A comedy of errors extends the lead: two–nil.And then the maestro Messi is closing for the kill. Free kick, outside the area. Good keeper, solid wallbut he still finds the corner with the perfect pin-point ball.They’re champions, not for nothing; they’ve teamwork, skill and speedand now they’ll come to Anfield with a comfy three-goal lead.

This is the crunch for Liverpool, the night they have to score.Can they keep Barcelona out, and somehow still get four?With their deadly strike-force trio they’re in it with a shout.No Salah, no Firmino; there has to be a doubt. But Jurgen is an optimist and hope is never dead;this team will never walk alone, its heart is deepest red.Time was the good ship Liverpool was leaky at the backbut with Van Dijk and Alisson they’re surely back on track.Klopp spends the money wisely, the fans all think he’s Godand here’s the proof – a miracle: a large, united squad.Origi and Shaqiri don’t often get to playbut when the chance is offered they’ll grab it all the way.

For Suarez and Coutinho the welcome’s extra loud;the team sheet may be different but there’s passion in this crowd.It’s not all one-way traffic, there’s chances either endbut the force is with the home team and Liverpool won’t bend. This is a night for workrate, for running till you dropfor tackling anything that moves. Believe, like Jurgen Klopp.Origi gets the first one. A rebound, sure, but heylast time they didn’t get the luck but this could be their day. Wijnaldum, super sub, slides in the sweetest shot you’ll seethen rises like a rocket to head in number three.

Trent Alexander-Arnold still has a point to make.Klopp dropped him from the first leg. Was that his one mistake?A corner. Barcelona are slow to get in place.He risks a pass along the ground – two bounces, not much pace. A training-ground manoeuvre.Good for a laugh, you feel,but in a semi-final? This kid has verves of steel.Origi sweeps it in the net. Defenders gaze, aghast,defeated by opponents too hard, too smart, too fast.They’ve done the unbelievable – scored four and let none in.The fans, the team, without their stars, have found a way to win.Yes, miracles can happen. That is the golden rule.They claim that “this means more”. Tonight, it does. It’s Liverpool.

“And LEAVE means…” What? It’s anybody’s guess.So many promises in that campaign.No migrants? Money for the NHS?Fuck business. Where is Ireland? It’s insane.But May will sort it out with thick red linesthough Parliament is rubbish, she can tell. MPs have other answers on their minds but will she let them? Not a chance in hell.

Old Trafford’s disappointed, to lose at home’s the worst.Is this the end of dreaming, has Ole’s bubble burst?Beaten 2-0 by PSG. What’s more they were outclassedBy organised opponents, experienced and fast.

So now they’re off to Paris. No chance, the pundits say.The players unavailable could beat these, any day.But Solskjaer knows the history of comebacks from the dead;He never says it’s hopeless, he’s a winner, he’s a Red.

If we can get an early goal then that will sow some doubt.It barely takes two minutes for that to come about.Twin strikers hunting as a pair provoke a slack mistakeLukaku’s rounding Buffon and United get a break.

The home side get a goal back. That lead was all too shortThis PSG won’t just collapse, a battle must be fought.United like a boxer are battered on the ropesIt looks like one-way traffic but they hang on to their hopes.

A swerving shot from Rashford that Buffon cannot holdAnd then Lukaku strikes again – this pair is solid gold.Maria dinks it into goal. Relief, it’s given offside;Last-ditch defending at its best, they’re fighting for their pride.

It’s not just hell for leather, it’s a carefully planned campaignBehind the boss’s smiling face is a calculating brain.There’s a player getting treatment when Solskjaer – he’s the man –Calls players to the dugout to see the latest plan.

He shows them all the diagram, how everyone pulls backUntil the last ten minutes when they move in to attack.A hopeful shot’s deflected – was that a Paris arm?The VAR says penalty, and just one man is calm.

It’s mine, says Rashford, 20. You take the chance you get.He waits until the bickering’s done them blasts it in the net.United’s bench is drowning in a torrent of reliefAs the box of sound is silenced in utter disbelief.

They didn’t play great football. Good passes? Just a fewBut they believed until the end and that’s why they went through.It took a dodgy penalty late on in added timeBut as Ole said before the game – mountains are there to climb.

So what’s the panic? What’s the fuss?It’s all aboard the big red bus.The brakes are shot but we don’t carewe’re heading off to God knows where.The youngsters hover, hesitatewhile pensioners decide their fate. Some changed their minds and some are deadbut buckle up - full steam ahead.

Who ever could have prophesiedthat we’d get taken for this ride?The gloves were off, the rules were bentand who knows how much cash was spent?Jo Cox is dead, but this campaignwill stop for nothing – it’s insane.The xenophobes want aliens outso spread the hatred, stir the doubt.The wards aren’t staffed, the fruit’s not pickedbut at least they got migration licked. It’s not far now, the cliff’s in sight;we can’t slow down, so hold on tight.

It’s natural there’s teething pain –some short-term loss for long-term gain - so you might get these gloomy thoughtsof tailbacks at the channel ports,stockpiling medicine, food stacked high.bureaucracies that multiplywhile business tries to look ahead:the windscreen’s misted, lights are red. The Irish border’s still not done;replay the Troubles, anyone?In/Out, they said. A toss-up bet;who knew how complex this would get?

We’re heading for the cliff at speedso now a driver’s all we need. We watch, in growing disbeliefnegotiations come to grief.They’re making threats, they’re acting tough;they work through bombast, bluster, bluff.The EU watch our drama classperform their never-ending farce.While they make V signs from the backthe bus accelerates off track.

What we were offered, it would seem,was not a route map, but a dream. “I’ve heard the British people’s voice”says May, “and I respect their choice.” That dark campaign, confused at best,meant voting motives can’t be guessedbut somehow she can read our mindsand what she sees are thick red lines.

Some Tories try to vote her out.Don’t have the numbers. It’s a rout.She tries to get her deal through –loses by hundreds, not a clue.“Resign” the opposition criedso then her troops were back on side. She says she’s learnt. A range of views. She will consult and then she’ll choose but the only members she can see are Tories and the DUP.No motion in the house is passed.Is constipation here to last? May seems to be in trouble when “Let’s all go back and start again.”She plans to renegotiate.The EU? Well, they just can’t wait.

The clock is ticking, steering’s gonebut still the bus is thundering on.there’s flashing lights and danger signsbut keep between those thick red linesuntil we face the final drop -can nothing make this madness stop?It’s hell on wheels, it’s rock and rollso tell me – who took back control?

SHE DID IT! Ditched her losing streak, and scoreda stunning win. The tabloid headlines screamthat Corbyn’s Crushed, Boris is Back on Boardand Tories are again the champion team.

So, what defines her quality, her class?It’s not the dribble, or deceptive sway that stops defenders dead; the stylish passthat splits opponents, helps her side to play. It’s not the shot that stings the keeper’s handsfrom forty yards; the tackle like a rockthat fires the fans. She’s deaf to every call.There at the corner flag the captain standscounting the dying seconds on the clock:nobody else is going to get this ball.

The Tories have no leader – it’s a dangerous kind of lull;Front runner’s David Davis, an honest man, but dull.And then a smooth outsider slides up along the rails‘Cos Cameron’s come to save the day; Bullingdon never fails. He’s young and he’s articulate. OK, he’s still a toffBut you can tell he’s passionate - he takes his jacket off.He prowls the stage without a note, he pulls out all the stopsThe party needs a PR man with a taste for photo-ops.Gay marriage, hugging huskies, he’s definitely greenThis is the nicest Tory the press have ever seen.His footwork’s light and nimble, he’s prepared to change his mindAusterity is all the rage, the green crap’s left behind.

But now, here comes the big one. Europe. In or out?He’s going to grasp the nettle, he’s not a trace of doubt.A simple vote will lance the boil and put all minds at restGeorge Osborne says it’s crazy but Cameron knows best.It’s not a risky gamble, it’s not a dangerous bet;He’s run a ton of close campaigns and never lost one yet.Soubry, Morgan, Greening say “It’s negative. All men.”“Calm down, dears. I know how this goes, we’ll all be friends again.”With Gove and Johnson peddling lies he holds their critics back“When all this fuss is over, we’ll need our colleagues back.”He’d never fully realised how mean the press could beBut as this bitter war unfolds he almost starts to seeThe can of worms he’s opened. But still he is the man.Etonians never lose their cool. “That didn’t go to plan.”

Precisely what the future holds he doesn’t care a bitBut no way will he stay around “to clear up all this shit.”The good folk of Dakota pay seven bucks a headTo hear about the vote he called, the government he led. Who knows if it makes sense to them, how much they understand –From Downing Street to a shed that costs well over twenty grand.He’s scribbling in the garden, the memoir’s on its way;When news is thin the press drop in to hear what he will say. “Not a disaster”, he proclaims, “there’s no need to get fraught.It’s not ideal, but it turned out less badly than we thought.”Is that what Mrs May says as she tries to sort this mess?What Tories will sign up to is anybody’s guess.

As the shambling beast of Brexit comes near the final hourHis friends inform reporters that he misses being in power.“Bored shitless” goes the rumour, though anyone can seeShitless is something Cameron could never ever be. He’s cooked our goose, this nation is sure to come a cropper;We are the pig he shafted, he’s screwed us good and proper.

I cancel meetings, come in late,disrupt agendas – let them wait.The reason why I play it rough?We need to sort the finance stuff.I want all payments brought in line -the target’s now two oh one nine.I tell the press “That’s down to me”but Merkel, Macron don’t agree.The date, they say’s, two two oh four –Exactly what it was before.

Another plane, another dayand then it’s on to the UK. Although the people wanted outlooks like they took a different rout.I gave Theresa some advice.Too brutal, maybe. She’s so nice.I told The Sun. They didn’t chooseto print it. Like I say, fake news.What’s that? Their transcript’s down the line?Sure, it was generally fine.I liked the Boris Johnson part.The guy’s a friend. That’s from the heart.Like I told Piers, they love me here‘cos I see immigration clear.So, will I stand again? Might dosince everybody wants me to.

Then back to Turnberry. Love these greens.So many memorable scenes.Protestors and supporters. Sheep.Five million pounds of policing’s cheap.Two years ago, I’m sure it’s thereI sensed some changes in the air.The day before on Brexit eve,I said UK would vote to leave.What’s that? There’s a correction. Hey,turns out it was the following day.Time to move on. I don’t regreta thing, but still I shan’t forgetthat look on sad Theresa’s face:“You’ll ask about the Skripal case?”

US and Russia? Tricky stuff.We haven’t been in touch enough.Mistakes on both sides. Clear the air,so Putin summarized, real clear,on Syria, Iran, Crimea.Co-operation in the mainbut not too much about Ukraine.And novichok? The Salisbury crime?Never came up. There wasn’t time.

There’s talk of treason. That’s a joke.Ok, so maybe I misspoke.Would/wouldn’t…it’s so hard to guesslike girls whose No means maybe Yes.Tore up the rule book? Well, OK.What counts is what the voters say.My fan-base sees, my fan-base knows,just listen to the call-in shows.Stuff diplomatic niceties –they’d rather have a plate of friesThis woman rang to show support.I’d like to share her parting thought:“If they’re what kept out Hillarythank God for Russia. Fine by me.”

So here’s to Gareth Southgate, an unassuming chapWe know when he’s appointed that he’s there to plug a gap.He used to manage Middlesbrough who never won a thingBut now Big Sam has blown it in a journalistic sting.

It’s not the easiest job to take, the press are on your backThey’ll tell you where the team went wrong, they’ll list the skills you lack.The Wembley crowd are vicious, add Twitter to the mixThen worst of all that dread refrain – “Remember ’66?”

But Gareth’s not distracted, he does the job his wayHe’s managed England’s younger teams, he knows these kids can play.Forget big reputations, forget about the pastCreate a style that suits the team, that’s skilful, fluid, fast.

No rampant solo egos, no stars who think they’re GodBut a diverse mix of talent where what matters is the squad.England with added teamwork, a sight we’ve seldom seen,Defence, midfield, strikers - a smoothly oiled machine.

Tunisia is the first game – it’s one we’re meant to win.We make a lot of chances but only one goes in.They get the softest penalty; should we prepare for pain?Just keep the faith, and at the end thank God for Harry Kane.

Next up is Panama and there's been talk about the heatBut the hottest things in this display are the England forwards’ feet.There’s Jesse Lingard scampering, they’ve still not caught him yet,A slick one-two with Sterling and a screamer finds the net.

They have this neat free-kick routine, from left to right and back,Though Sterling’s shot is saved there’s Stones to head us back on track.Manhandling means two penalties no matter what they sayBang in the top left corner Kane blasts them both away.

He’s been a World Cup extra who never played a gameSo Gareth keeps the squad involved, he treats them all the same;They try to keep the structure, to press and move and passBut even Belgium’s second team are still a different class.

Colombia is different, we dominate the playBut they have passionate support, they’re fighting all the way;There’s fouls and provocations, to which we mustn’t rise,Maybe Kane’s pen will be enough – and then they equalize.

Our genius commentators are in their rut again“But England haven’t blah blah blah since God alone knows when.”They’ve still not got the message that this is something new;As Gareth tells the players “Your story’s down to you.”

They’ve done the preparation, detailed analysis;They trust in Pickford’s strong left hand, and Dier doesn’t miss. So yes, we’ve won on penalties, we’ve won a knockout gameWe’re in uncharted territory where things won’t be the same.

A nervy start with Sweden, we pass it into touch,That free and flowing football that we wanted – not so much.But those dead-ball rehearsals deliver bang on cue;Two headed goals, some tough defence, and Pickford sees us through.

Now Gareth spreads the praise around, he credits all the staff,He knows that if you work that hard you have to have a laugh;Magnanimous in victory, he’s not the crowing typeHe shares the moment with the fans but disregards the hype.

We could have reached the final, we had them on the runThough Trippier’s goal’s a beauty it’s still the only one.We’re looking fast and confident, the movement is sublimeIf only we could freeze it, not go beyond half-time.

We start to lose it, lose it all, composure, skill and breath;Croatia equalize and then they nick it at the death. They’ve won two penalty shoot-outs, they’re canny, hard as nails,They ought to be exhausted but experience prevails.

Would the sunshine last for ever? Could the lads go all the way?We know there’ll be a reckoning in the bitter light of day.And Southgate's boys are gutted, they feel they’ve failed a testBut we’ll remember this World Cup for England at their best.

They’re playing to a pattern but it’s not a rigid schemeThey understand the way it works, they know there’s room to dream.They think ahead, they play at pace, they aim to keep the ballThey celebrate, communicate, enjoy it – best of all.

He’s a winner in a waistcoat, a maestro with a plan.Who set the tone, who picked the team? It’s Southgate. He’s the man.He’s modest and he’s decent but we sing his praises loud‘Cos Gareth’s given us a squad of which we can be proud.

“We’re Cambridge Analytica, we’ve many cunning schemes;If you’re running an election we can realise your dreams.We hoover up the data, the nasty and the nice,Our targeting of messages is deadly and precise.We feed stuff in the bloodstream and then we watch it growBut where those rumours came from no-one will ever know.We’re the ultimate consultants, more hi-tech than the restAnd our fee is on the steep side – because we are the best.You can pay it by instalments, you can pay it in a lumpBut you know that we’ll deliver, just like we did for Trump.

Deter the opposition – we say ‘inoculate’ –By conjuring up a vision of violence and hate:‘Don’t bother with the ballot, the things they say aren’t true.’We did it in Nigeria, and this could work for you. Our managing director is a master of disguise,Pretends to be a businessman and tells persuasive lies.We make outrageous offers and film them all the whileThen threaten with exposure – it’s blackmail, with style.

You need a tasty titbit, the smear that’s going to hurt?We can supply the experts at digging for the dirt.Ex-spies, UK and Israel, will go through private stuffAnd manufacture scandal, if digging’s not enough.We offer leisure holidays, in Southern France and Spain;Complete your victim’s pleasure, with girls from the Ukraine.

Don’t worry. There’s no comeback. There’ll be no trace of blame.We shift our deals to other firms and often change the name.We worked in Eastern Europe; our hand was never seen –Slipped underneath the radar and no-one knew we’d been.Our network of connections is spread out far and wideThere’s academic projects within which we can hide.You say you’re from Sri Lanka? No problem. Who would careIf we crossed another border? Deceit sans frontières.Stuff that’s believed may not be true. Sounds bad – don’t get me wrong.Here’s hoping our relationship is secretive and long.It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’ll walk you to the door.Sorry? What’s that you’re telling me? You work for Channel 4?

These claims are quite outrageous. You’ve gone too far this time.We always work within the law. Entrapment is a crime.‘Have we no trace of conscience? Who ordered dirty tricks?’The answer to both questions is identical. It’s ‘Nix.’ “

When Konta was at Wimbledon I wasn’t phased a bitI knew she was Australian – how could she be a Brit?The feminists got angry, they’re quick to take offenceThe way I see it there’s their view – and then there’s common sense.

I’ve been around for ever, reported Aberfan,When Dimbleby missed Question Time they knew I was the man;I grill the politicians, I’m ready for a fightThey try to get a word in but they know that I am right.

I dominate the microphone, my condescending drawlDismisses other viewpoints, I know that it’s my call.Now Carrie Gracie’s moaning ‘cos women get less payHow much d’you think I’ve offered her to try to make her stay?

I had to put John Sopel right – “You won’t believe this mess.You realise she’s suggesting that you should be paid less?”Such chat does not prevent me discussing this on airIt’s only boyish banter – a ban would be unfair.

I should be free to speak my mind, though there’s the curious thoughtThat women have been silenced for voicing their support.When prejudice is pouring out there’s no-one to say whenCos it’s business as usual at the BBC for men.

Rule 1. Exude an air of confidence.Rule 2. Officials only cramp your style.Don’t seek advice. Just use your common sense.Keep talking, and maintain that winning smile.Rule 3. If challenged by reporters, bluff –“It was a holiday.” Or improvise:“She’s training students, journalistic stuff…”They’re harmless little falsehoods. No-one dies.Rule 4. Retreat with style. Low key is good.“I had twelve meetings…Boris knew…fourteen?”“If what I said has been misunderstood…all out of context…what I really mean…”Rule 5. Don’t say “I’m sorry.” That’s uncouth.Keep talking. Smile. Forget about the truth.

There’s a magic in the metre, in the Kipling rock and roll,The rhythm that you learnt at school, the soundtrack of your soul;In the old Moulmein Pagoda, where it’s perfect to declaim –You can’t help it, you’re an addict – Boris Johnson is your name.“This is not the time and place”, there’s a disapproving faceFrom the apparatchik next to you, but thenThese are foreign office minions with inferior opinions;They don’t realise you’re bound for Number Ten.

You wrote this EU column, of frothy comic stuffBut then you made a quote up and The Times had had enough.As Mayor of London photo-ops you had a busy time.Though you didn’t cut pollution and you didn’t sort the crimeBut you knew you couldn’t fail on the LEAVE campaigning trailWhen the old charisma bubbled up againYou were winning and on track when a knife stab in the backPut the mockers on your rise to Number Ten.

Churchill is still your hero in an old colonial dreamObama is part-Kenyan, and the picanninies beamIn Tokyo street rugby’s not a game, more like a fightAs a ten-year old gets clattered by your tackle in full flight.The upbeat tone, the floppy hair are great on screen, superb on airOlympics, on a zipwire, hanging…whenYou give that boyish grin ‘cos you know you still can winAnd get back on to the road to Number Ten.

There’s controversy attaching to a limerick that you wroteIn which the Turkish premier had relations with a goat.“Never came up” you chortled. “We’re good friends, we start anewAnd the UK’s backing Turkey as it tries to join EU.”Europeans watch you swerve, they’re disgusted by your nerve“Mr. Johnson’s changed positions, yet again.When you’ve said you’re on your way you don’t get the right to sayEven if you aim to get to Number Ten.”

The articles keep coming, and your chutzpah doesn’t dieBig money for the NHS, that old familiar lie.So says the back seat driver who seeks to navigate“There must be no backsliding – we have to seize our fate.”If negotiations stall you’ll be ready for the callYou are chosen, and you’re on the rise againSo who cares if what you say undermines Theresa May?You’ve got one more chance to get to Number Ten.

What makes a happy ending for a President in power?Some cut down government spending, some made the commies cower;Some claim they made the weather, some got elections wonSome kept their team together, got legislation done.

You’d think that we were Isis the way they pull us downThey claim that we’re in crisis, the lousiest show in town.The media fail to get it, they think I’m just a laughThere’s no way I regret it when there’s feuds between my staff.

I’m on a jungle mission where the weakest don’t surviveThe heat of competition is the setting where I thriveI crave big beasts in action and agreement makes me tired –There’s no greater satisfaction than the joy of saying “You’re fired!”

Here’s the lowdown on the showdownThe return to Eden ParkWhere the flame of history flickers:Can the Lions make their mark?Sure, the All Blacks can be beaten;England did it, ‘ 73But it doesn’t happen oftenAnd it never comes for free.

They are physical and streetwiseThey are savvy and they’re fastBy the time you see the dangerThey have runners racing past.They are sniffing for the offloadThey are ruthless in the maulTeams who beat them stick togetherAll for one and one for all.

No, the schedule wasn’t cleverAnd some early games were lost;If you build a squad with jetlagThen there’s bound to be a cost.Local papers were derisiveMocked their chances, did them down,Underestimated GatlandCanny Kiwi’s not a clown.

There are moments in the battleWhen the flickering flame is lowTimes when Sinckler, George and OwensMight have let the series go,But the pack still swarms around themWith a love-slap on the head‘Cos it’s not the final whistleAnd this team is never dead.

So they didn’t cross the try-lineThey made hardly any breaks,Beauden Barrett missed two sittersAnd the All Blacks made mistakesBut it’s still a magic momentWe shall treasure evermore –Kicked the points and made the tackles,Faced the All Blacks, got a draw.

From a grammar school in Yorkshire she wins her Cambridge place;She doesn’t speak the same as them and no-one knows her face.While others have done gap years Jo hasn’t been away,Packed toothpaste in the factory where her dad works every day.But as a lonely student in that chilly eastern townShe vows to make a difference, she won’t be backing down.

She worked as a researcher, in NGOs, in aid;Cheap medicine, casualties of war, the laws controlling trade.In a myriad of settings, the message is the same:We must protect the vulnerable, it’s justice that we claim.In Darfur, in Colombia, she’s energy to burn,A Westerner who listens, who’s not afraid to learn.The powers that be imagine that this girl is no big deal -She’s tiny and she’s charming, but she’s also made of steel.

Ten years confronting heartbreak, some changes she can seeBut now the biggest challenge; she’ll stand as an MP.She’ll represent constituents, she’ll fight to right their wrongsAnd it has to be in Batley, the place where she belongs.At first there’s some suspicion. From Cambridge? What’s the fuss?But then a wave of warm relief – this girl is one of us.She greets the market traders, the women’s rugby team;We do belong together, it isn’t just a dream.Jo Cox is not a robot, she’s a mother and a wife,A friend who likes to party, with an appetite for life.

She’s been a year in Parliament, she’s got them on the runAsks questions, gathers allies, above all, gets things done.Yes, Syria is our business, it’s vital that we care;The issues that divide us are less than what we share.Some say she’ll be a minister – demanding, canny, boldBut then the referendum puts everything on hold.

The campaign’s getting nasty, there’s poison in the airAnd some of it is lodging in the head of Thomas Mair.God knows just what he’s thinking as he’s lying there in waitBut she’s the perfect target, the love he has to hate.In Parliament the tributes suggest she got it right –Two roses on her usual seat: red Labour, Yorkshire white.Jo’s voice was cruelly silenced, her chance for change has goneSo it’s up to us to take it, to see her work goes on.

It’s cool to win elections, and having power’s a laughBut things get complicated when you’re employing staff.Attorney General Sally Yates said “Don’t appoint Mike Flynn.”Obama, something similar, but I said “Show him in.”OK, he’s linked with Russia, but how was I to know?As soon as I was made aware I said he’d have to go.

And now there is James Comey, who runs the FBI;When he leaked stuff on Hillary he was my kind of guy.But then things kind of soured when he made it all too plainHe’s looking into Russia and their links with my campaign.“Are you investigating me?” I put it to him straight;He told me that he wasn’t, but I couldn’t afford to wait.

He’s in LA, addressing staff, the auditorium packed.A message runs across the screen “James Comey has been sacked.”He laughs, ‘cos he imagines it’s a prank his staff might doUntil an aide comes up to him, informs him that it’s true.Some said that was insensitive, but the time is never right.Just tell the guy it’s over, and then switch out the light.

My guys leapt into action – first off, Sean Spicer said“The Hillary Clinton e-mails – that’s why James Comey’s dead.”Sarah Huckabee Sanders implied a devious crime“The guy committed atrocities, he lived on borrowed time.”“Unpopular,” a spokesman said, “he’d lost the FBI.”His deputy insisted “That is a flat out lie.”Then Spicer claimed I’d acted on advice that I’d been shownBut all that stuff is garbage. I acted on my own.I am the guy that calls the shots. It’s time. I’d had enoughHe better know that there’s no tapes if he starts leaking stuff.

Next day, I tell the Russians “Beware the ISIS threat,They’ve got a trick with laptops. Could be the deadliest yet.”I get top secret info, and have the right, of courseTo share stuff which endangers a vulnerable source.The US press were not allowed, but a Russian camera crewReleases pictures of our chat. They’re devious. Who knew?Then Putin said it wasn’t them from whom this secret slippedBut if we need a record he’ll let us have their script.

No leader’s ever suffered what’s happening to me nowNot Hitler, not Caligula, Pinochet, Chairman Mao.The press won’t knock me off this course, I’m keeping to my line.The folks who voted for me think that what I do’s just fine.I’ve lifted bans on pesticides. Junk food controls are dead.Ivanka’s sorting climate change ‘cos that stuff hurts my head.I’ve read the contract’s small print, my term’s not yet expiredOne thing’s for sure, I am the guy who gets to say “You’re fired!”You’ll thank me for it later, I’ve nothing to regret.If you think this is chaos you ain’t seen nothing yet.

The graduates of Bullingdon, the Cameron/Osborne boysAre oozing with entitlement and make a lot of noise;The senior woman in cabinet is calm as Mona LisaWho knows what’s going on inside the head of Queen Theresa?

Home Office is the graveyard where all politicans loseBut all the media can find to comment on is shoes;God help the eager immigrant who’s hopeful for a visaHostile environment’s the thing that motivates Theresa.

The referendum comes along to split the party wide,Big beasts patrol the microphones but she stays safe inside;George Osborne’s sums are not quite straight, they’re like the tower of Pisa,It’s smart to keep your powder dry like canny Queen Theresa.

Once Leave has won the backs are stabbed, Gove shafts his mates in style;Can Leadsom be the best they’ve got? Theresa, by a mile.The leavers – Boris, David, Liam- are desperate to please’erOnly a fool strays out of line in the court of Queen Theresa.

So Brexit must mean Brexit. What’s that? We try to guess.It’s yes to immigration bans, no cash for NHS.She doesn’t want to spell it out; she stays aloof, like CaesarEx-pats are simply bargaining chips if you are Queen Theresa.

After the split from Europe will we be just a rump?She’s sprinting to the plane to be the first to chat up Trump.So yes, she’ll let him take her hand and later, he may squeeze’er;She smiles, and thinks of England, long-suffering Theresa.

She’d like more houses built for rent, real gains that voters see,Some government boosts for business, and job security.But the history books won’t mention those, you can bung ‘em in the freezerFor Brexit’s all that matters in the reign of Queen Theresa.

So now I’m talking here, directto you the people. You expectto trust the words the media saybut Washington, New York, LAare packed with journalists who doa great disservice – that means you,yes, BBC and CNN(though Fox has honourable men).Oh yes. The press are here with meWe’re glad to have them. They’ll be free,to ask their questions. No surprisethat they’ll still write it up as lies.I’m happy to collaborateand if they want a scrap – can’t wait.But we’ve made progress. Say it loud:we’ve done good work. I’m very proud.

OK, who’s first? Where to begin?Oh boy. Of course. It’s General Flynn.You hint at diplomatic crimesbut I’ve made clear so many timesI never talked to them but twice.Putin rang up, he was real nice.Well done, the night I won the vote.Inauguration: all she wrote.Flynn’s not a crook, a real fine manand he did nothing wrong. The canmust still be carried. He misledMike Pence. That’s why I had his head.But all this is a ploy they choose –the Democrats can’t bear to lose.

The news says chaos. It’s obscene.This is a finely-tuned machine,this operation that I run.A mere four weeks, and we have donemore stuff than previous regimes.Obama in his wildest dreamscould never operate this way.I won. I won. And did I sayI got the highest college shareof any pres since Reagan. There.What’s that? You think that wasn’t true?Obama? Clinton? And Bush too?OK. That story’s maybe cold.I just passed on what I was told.

Obama left me with a mess.The Middle East. Korea. Guessjust who’s the guy to sort them out.You got it. Me, without a doubt

The tone. The hatred. Gets me downto hear reporters in this townabuse me. I am not that bad.My win, the ratings that I’ve had,my business empire all suggestof all the candidates, I’m best.But I’ll tell you how this will play.Tomorrow’s newspapers will say“Trump raved.” Too good a chance to miss.But hey, it’s great. I’m loving this.

Anti-semitic? Racist? Me?Let’s treat this issue seriously.I know myself and in my mindI’m the most tolerant guy you’ll find.I said I’d keep the Muslims out.It made the liberals scream and shoutbut my migration ban was fine,the rollout smooth, along the line.The only place where it fell shortwas that we got a lousy court.A bad decision held us back;in no time things will be on track.And by the way, my cabinetcould be the most impressive yet.Fantastic talents, I’m quite moved.Can’t wait to get them all approved.

Could you explain your cities plan?I would be honored. I’m the manwho pulled in way above my shareof votes that were predicted there.Afro-American, as wellas women and Hispanics. Hell,I broke the mould. So, will you beconsulting with the CBC?And who are they? Or must I guess?Congressional Black Caucus, yes?You’re black. Maybe you know these guys,could introduce me, put them wise?I’m just a journalist. No sweat.I’ve got your name. I shan’t forget.

I don’t believe it. Here we go.The big thing that they want to know:when General Flynn was on the phoneto Russia, did he act aloneor was this authorised by me?I told you. One-track minds. You see?The thing they should be chasing downis all the leaking in this town.Top level confidential stuffgets in the press. Not good enough.What’s that? No, there is no mistake.The leaks are real. The news is fake.